


A History of Ghosts

by rebelliux



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Lachlan McCallahan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:01:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliux/pseuds/rebelliux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sad story for my sad kid</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Age 5

At age five, Lachlan wonders if mothers and fathers are real. Perhaps they are just another fairytale construct brought to life with woven words - a gentle, yet gruff man who laughs from his belly, with large hands that feel like worn down sandpaper; a delicate woman with the kindest eyes who sits by his bedside at night, reading bedtime story after bedtime story - a knight, a dragon, a bear! - with her tinkling voice. Is this not what mothers and fathers are?

Lachlan cannot remember the last time he heard his mother’s voice without the tinny filter of static as it blared through the speaker of the house phone. He cannot remember his father’s voice at all.

His mother calls once a month - on the second sunday at precisely 5 pm - and she always asks the same three questions.

_How are your studies?_

_Are you behaving well for Mrs. Labelle?_

_Do you need anything else?_  


And every month - on the second sunday at precisely 5 pm - Lachlan will always respond:

_Good, mother._

_Yes, mother._

_No, mother._

 

All in all, their routine usually takes around two minutes. But today is going to be different. Today is both his fifth birthday and the second sunday of the month. It’s a miniscule coincidence that brings a tiny flickering warmth to Lachlan’s chest - a small burning desire for a mother who will sing in the morning as she dances around the kitchen, who will lift Lachlan off the ground and spin him around and around in a dizzying blur of happiness. It’s a little fantasy he allows himself to have at night, toes wiggling in the cool air, unprotected by blankets, arms stretched out as if he could touch the ceiling with his stubby fingers if only, _if only--_

The clock strikes five, and the phone rings.

Lachlan runs to the stool sitting beneath the phone, which rests on the wall at a height improbable for five year olds, clamors up its wooden rungs, snatches the phone off its stand, holding it to his ear with both hands and a racing pulse in his veins--

 

_Hello, Lachlan. How are your studies?_

“Good, mother.”

_Are you behaving well for Mrs. Labelle?_

“Yes, mother.”

_Do you need anything else?_

 

Lachlan hesitates for a moment, mouth filled with the rancid bitterness of disappointment. He thinks about all the things he wants, needs-- a warm embrace, a gentle hand rustling through his hair, a voice to sing him to sleep at night--

 

“No.”

 

 _No_ , Lachlan thinks as he lays in bed that night, arms firmly tucked in at his sides, toes covered by the smothering comforter.

 

_Mothers and fathers aren’t real after all._


	2. Age 10

At age ten, Lachlan wonders why becoming an orphan doesn’t feel any different than before. There are many men in suits and women in black dresses. They come to the manor, filling the normally empty halls with chatter and the sound of clacking heels on marble. They all come to him, pat his head, say things in sad voices like:

 

_Oh, it’s such a shame, losing your parents at such a young age._

and

_They were such lively people, flying around to a different place around the globe every week - it’s just so hard to believe they’re gone!_

and

_Leaving behind such a responsible son, they were the luckiest parents in the world - it’s really such a loss._

  


How does Lachlan explain to these many men in suits and women in black dresses that his parent’s presence in his life was limited to brief phone calls and postcards that arrived in the mail every other month? How does he explain that in the event of his parent’s death, his home has now become the liveliest it’s ever been? How does one mourn the loss of something they did not have in the first place? 

These many men and women with their fancy hats and lacy shawls bring to Lachlan pictures of his parents that he’d never seen before, tell him stories of memories he had never known. 

This is not a loss. No. Not at all.

 

It must be slightly strange that the closest he’s ever felt with his parents comes after their deaths.

This does not keep Lachlan from hoarding these photos, these memories - keeping them close to his chest. They feed the diminished flame inside of him that still longs for that mythical mother and father.

Lachlan does not cry. He does not feel sad. What is difference between absent parents and permanently absent parents? He has more now than he did before, doesn’t he?  


And yet.  


_And yet._  


On the second sunday of the next month he cannot bring himself to look away from the phone which hangs against the wall at a height maybe a tad bit too tall for a ten year old. As the clock strikes five, his body moves without thinking and before he can really understand he’s holding the phone to his ear. The long beeping dial tone echos against his eardrum.

He stands there for a minute, phone against his ear and tries to imagine the sound of his mother’s voice - how strange that he had heard the same words repeated over and over, and yet cannot conjure them up once he knows they will never be spoken again. How strange. How strange.

He places the phone back on its stand with a gentle click. The silence is deafening. He takes a step back.

 

Lachlan does not cry. He does not feel anything at all.


End file.
